Story Time - the time I painted the outhouse and how it got ruined shortly after

Story time! I've pondered telling this story for quite a while now, and I think I'll give it a go and tell it today, simply for the sake of it.

This is the story of the time I was hired by my grandmother to repaint the outside section of the house. If you're in England, some of the older houses from the 1950's or 1960's will have sections built onto the side of them called outhouses. Basically, it's three compartments that includes a shed, a coal bunker and a toilet. As such, it was disgusting out there and infested with spiders, which later made my skin literally crawl when I discovered an actual spider nest inside of the disused coal bunker. I only poked my head in. No further.

It's been like this for years, and it was awful to look at. The white paint on the inside was faded to an off-cream, covered in dust, webs and other black-coloured muck and black mould. I'm not joking on the black mould part, it was everywhere. So, doors for front and back garden open at all times and a face mask were necessary. That stuff is toxic, even if you breathe it for a short amount of time, if it gets in your lungs, you're in trouble.

I enjoy painting, and have painted the fence, aviary and garden shed annually if it's required. Usually, my brother joins me in doing this, but it was only me for this job. Dad ran me through it and gave me tips on how it should be done, and I kept saying it would be a whole lot better to use fungicide to get rid of the black mould before I did any work, otherwise it would grow right back through it and ruin it. He knew that should have been the way to do it, but later told me that it wouldn't really matter in this case. I didn't agree, but still went along with it. It was at least something to do to kill boredom, so I didn't complain, even if my nit-picky perfectionist side wouldn't be quiet about it.

So, we went to Wickes and got some blue gloss paint for the doors on the inside and outside of the outhouse. Dad had already supplied me with the white paint for the interior, so that was one thing over with. I can't remember if I used one can or two cans of it, given they were smaller in size for the use the paint would see.

I got to painting every morning until late for three or four days to get it all done with. First, my job was to get rid of the old paint via scraper. I was wearing a mask for this, but not eye protection. The paint was lead-based, too, meaning it was hard and cracked and had been repainted on top of for years. It'd be blue, then yellow, then green, then white. Two or three times, as I was hammering this old paint of the walls as best as I could, I took shards of it to my eye. Literally in my eyeball. Can't tell you how much that hurt, even when blinking. I had to go to the mirror and hand-pick it out of my eye twice, and it was right in the back. The only protection I had were my glasses, but the top and bottom are open on my face, so it's obviously not much when the paint flies off the walls.

About two days laters, all the paint was gone. I only had to do the top half section of the toilet because the bottom half was all gloss paint, which had to be sanded down so it was smooth enough to be painted on. When it was all done, the hallway and toilet and the doors ready, I began to paint. The first thing I did was paint the interior with the white paint. It was the easiest part and didn't take too long, but if you've ever painted white upon white, it's so difficult to tell where you have and haven't painted when there's minimal light to see anything.

On the third day, I painted everything white and made quick work of it. When i was done and was letting it dry out, I began to work on the gloss paint. Now, I don't know how many of you reading this have used gloss paint, but if it gets on your skin, it is a nightmare to get off! It's so sticky and thick. I found this out when I opened the tin, got some smudged on my hands and then got it on the paintbrush, where it caked into the wood fibres and left me no choice but to be sticky-handed for the duration of painting the exterior doors and the windowsill inside. What living hell that was, not just for the sticky fingers, but for trying to get it off my skin when I was done. I was still trying to scrape it off about a couple weeks after!

Everything had to be double-coated, but the blue gloss was thick enough that it wasn't necessary to do it twice, so I didn't bother. So, the last part was simply repainting all the white sections. After it was all done, I felt so satisfied. Have you ever been painting anywhere or anything and then stilled smelled the fresh coats of paint days afterwards? It has to be one of the nicest and most satisfying aromas ever after a long, hard job.

There was one thing that this whole experience taught me when it came to painting and getting a job done, and it was this: I'm more like my dad than I thought. I guess I've secretly always known but never admitted to it, but I have been to work with him a few times when he wanted a hand with a job or wanted to spent time together. It's not often he does it, but I did go with him to fit a shower either early this year or late last year, I don't remember when exactly this was.

Dad can and does work his ass off on everything he does, and he does it so well. I'm not the practical type, but if I knew how to do things like him, it would be a skill I'd use to my advantage. I didn't really take a break from doing any work through the entire duration of doing this maintenance work, either. I think the only break I took when I ended up with backache and exhaustion from whacking away at the old paint to make way for the new ones. I'm not exactly known for having strong arms, so it was quite a workout for me. Satisfying in its own ways.

Here's what happened next...

Two weeks later - shortly after my paintwork was done, it was reported that there was a water main leak, which happened to be running underneath the garden at my grandparent's house, the main valve being, you guessed it, right where I had painted. Right away, this is bad news. The garden had actually become partially-flooded with water. The main valve tap had water coming slightly out from the top of the seal, gradually getting deeper. The paint was still fresh, so I wasn't happy about this. Thankfully, the water didn't wash away or damage any of the paintwork I had just done.

So, we had watermen come to the house to add in a new water meter to replace the old and faulty one. I wasn't here when they did this, but here's what it meant: given the floor of the outhouse section is concrete, it had to be dug up. That was going to make quite a mess. Fresh cement, dust and powder all in an area that was clean and freshly repainted, about to get mucky like it was before I had redone all the paint.

I came back to my grandparent's house after spending time with my dad at home and chilling out in the summer house. When I got back, oh, my god, was I so angry at what I saw. I get this was a messy job, but after all the work I'd done, it had been ruined by cement getting flicked in thick dollops all over the walls and the coal bunker's door and on the back door. It had been covered in grey-ish dust on the white paint all around, too. These watermen didn't even bother to clean up after themselves, even when they were very clearly told that it had all been recently redone by my grandma.

This was horrible to see from my eyes, given it was my work that got messed up yet again, and I remember saying to my grandma jokingly but in a serious tone, ''I want names!''. Even though they should have cleaned their mess up and cleaned off any excess cement like they were supposed to, the ones who did the work didn't bother in the slightest. I think they were reported twice, once by my grandmother and a second time by my dad.

I'm unsure of what happened to those two men. From what I heard, their boss was going to talk to them and tell them off for it, make them do it again, but do it right this time. So it was done right. Instead, it wasn't them who came around. It was a different guy who came to do the work this time, and even he was appalled by the state the other two had left the outhouse section in. The actual tap and the lid that was meant to be fixed wasn't even straight: it was lop-sided and half-sunk beneath the level surface of the concrete floor, which was beyond unacceptable.

The only good news out of this whole ordeal was that the water mains was fixed and done right this time. My paintwork was still ruined, but I had tried to clean it off when it was redone. It didn't do much. It no longer looked fresh, it had dust and whatever else was in the air stuck to the paint. Every time I walk through that section or when I come in on my bike and see it, it just makes me sad to look at. It wasn't fun when I noticed the spiders had moved back in and reclaimed it all with their webs.

It was nice to have something to do to keep me from going insane for the week, but having it all ruined not even two weeks after it was done was so annoying and sad. The only upside is that the smell of paint still lingered, even if faintly. And I have a bit of a thing for painting. It's quite a therapeutic art form, if I do say so. I can see why my dad enjoys doing it. Looking forward to doing it again once I get home and renovate my room, whenever that might be.

But that's pretty much it: how a week's-worth of maintenance / paintwork was ruined roughly two weeks after. All that for essentially nothing.

I'm not sure why I wanted to share this story to begin with, but I guess it was just one of those things that happens in daily life as a massive inconvenience. Face it, there's nothing better to do to pass the time while being stuck inside, so this might be an interesting read to somebody out there. I do have plenty of stories I can tell about certain events or moments in my personal life or when I'm with family, but those can wait.

Hope you enjoyed this one.

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- FireRain